Page 73 of Filthy Rich Daddies

She blinks. “What?”

“I paid for it. Quietly. Through a shell corporation. I didn’t want to interfere, but I thought—well, I thought he deserved the best.”

She stares at me, stunned. “How…how did you even know about that?”

“I looked into you.”

Her expression hardens. “You what?”

“I was curious,” I admit. “Before the weekend. Before any of this. Your profile stood out. I looked you up. I saw an article. A photo of your family. The missing arm. I asked someone to reach out.”

She takes a step back, arms folded. “That was before the pregnancy.”

“Yes.”

“So you just…help people like that? Behind the scenes?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “I’ve spent a lot of my life with too much money and not enough purpose. When I see someone who could be helped—someone like your father—I try to act. It made mehappy to hear about your reaction to the news. Colin said you were overjoyed?—”

“Colin saw me in the library when I found out?”

“Yeah. Good timing, I guess, as far as him being there when you found out. He hadn’t been watching you for long?—”

“Watching me?”

“You were never supposed to know it was me,” I say. “I didn’t want credit. I just wanted him to have a better life. And I’m telling you now, because like I said, I’m done with secrets.”

She shakes her head. Her words come out slowly. “You think it’s okay to stalk me and change my parents’ lives without asking?”

“I wasn’t stalking. I was helping.”

“No, I suppose you weren’t. Colin was.” Her voice is sharp.

Why is her voice sharp? “You sound mad?—”

“You do these big, life-altering things like it’s nothing, send your brother to stalk me around campus, and I’m just supposed to…be okay with that? Accept it because your intentions were good?”

My words scatter. “I thought you’d want me to be honest.”

“I’m grateful,” she says. “Of course I am. But it’s heavy-handed. And it has to stop.”

“Then it stops.”

She swallows. “Good. I’d like to sleep in my own bed for a while. Alone.”

I don’t like this. But I nod and leave her dorm room feeling a weight in my chest that doesn’t lift. I wanted to do right by her. And somehow, I still feel like I failed.

I don’t go home right away.

I drive, but without direction, taking turns that don’t lead anywhere, letting the city pass by in a blur of traffic lights and reflective glass. I don’t even remember which bridge I crossed. I just know that I end up pulling over somewhere near a park, shutting off the engine, and sitting with my hands still on the wheel.

I thought telling her would feel like relief. Instead, I feel like I’m coming apart in layers.

I try to replay the moment with different words. Try to picture saying it differently—softer, smarter, less abrupt. But there’s no version of it that changes what it was. A rich man, making a decision that should have been hers to make.

Even if I thought I was helping. Especially because I thought I was helping. My intentions don’t matter if the impact hurts her. I know that.

But it didn’t hurt her. It helped her. This is confusing. And I hate the way it feels to be wrong.